Two Empty Houses
by howdoyouspellomally
Summary: A collection of headcanons for post-Reichenbach accumulating in Sherlock and John's eventual reunion.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi everyone, it's my first time writing fanfiction and I don't really read a lot of it, so this whole thing is probably a heinous crime against it, but I hope you'll bear with me. This is simply a collection headcanons I have for post-Reichenbach and their eventual reunion.**

* * *

><p><em>And I sang oh what do I do?<em>

_What do I do without you?_

_On the morning when I woke up without you for the first time,_

_I was cold_

* * *

><p><span>i<span>

John and Mrs Hudson are watching telly downstairs. He's had a long day working in the hospital and had gone to sleep as soon as he got home, forgetting he had shopping to do. Ever patient and understanding, Mrs Hudson has made them both nibbles and they're eating off trays, flicking through channels, the film they were watching having just finished.

BBC news flashes onto the screen and a muffled alarm in the back of John's head goes off, snapping a part of him to attention. Whenever Sherlock had gotten irritable with boredom, they had avidly watched the news together in hope of a case. John still went to the police with advice sometimes. He'd never be Sherlock Holmes but he knew more about this stuff than anyone, except perhaps Mycroft. Most times he just had to avoid Lestrade and the memories wouldn't hit him so bad.

A school flashed up onto the screen, a wind-ruffled reporter walking through the playground with a microphone as she squinted at the cameras tracking her. Mrs Hudson perked up suddenly, putting her tray down on her lap.

"Ooh, that's the school I donated..." she paused and looked at John nervously "..._his_ science equipment to."

John massaged his forehead. There was no question of who Mrs Hudson was speaking but he didn't want to say or think his name either._ Three years, one month and two days. Nine hours,_ he adds mentally as he looks at the digital clock beneath the tv, _and forty six minutes_. He never did stop counting the days. When it had reached the first month he had told himself to stop, yet here he was all this time later, doing his best to lock his grief away, and he still knew exactly how long it had been since Sherlock had left him behind. He watched the television set intently, trying to focus his whole mind on what the woman was saying. It didn't work though, all these years and it never worked.

_"Seemingly without explanation, Mullern Grammar School for Girls was broken into last night," _the woman said, sounding bored and emotionless._ "A bizarre selection of science equipment was stolen from a typically well guarded lab, leaving no trace for the police to follow. The equipment was very valuable but the school were lucky enough to have been donated it a few years ago by a local. Head-teacher, Graham Owens says-"_

John's shocked gaze mirrored Mrs Hudson's as she stared in horror at the television set.

"It's horrible!" she said in a scolding tone, as if the burglars were her children, standing guiltily before her. "What people will do for money these days. The thieves probably won't even use the stuff, probably don't even know what it's for! Mind you, neither do I..." she trailed off and then quietly said "I always wanted to ask him. I quite liked all that chemistry what-not in school."

John smiled and nodded. In between the chemicals spilling in his coffee, he'd always wondered what it was all for too. How Sherlock made all these deductions from an eyebrow hair or something ridiculous like that. But these were things John had only really ever thought of after Sherlock had gone and he reasoned that he would not give a damn what it all meant if there were test tubes in the washing up now. Strange what you miss about a person.

"_Local police are utterly baffled as to who took the equipment and how the thieves got in, but Sergeant Grace states that 'there have been lots of school equipment thefts in the last few years and it is mostly likely to be found being sold on e-bay'."_

John got up and switched of the television. "Bastards," he muttered, and went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Nobody said it was easy_

_It's such a shame for us to part_

_Nobody said it was easy_

_No one ever said it would be this hard_

* * *

><p><span>ii<span>

"John?"

John was half asleep, paper-back book slipping out of his hands, when Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped onto the bus. It was empty but for them, an old man sleeping up front and a loud bunch of kids going on holiday upstairs. Despite the muffled racket, the gentle rocking of the bus had lulled John into a stupor. One which Lestrade- of course- had to be the one to break. John's heart sank at the sight of him.

"Greg, hello," he said, dazedly sitting up properly and shuffling over to the window seat, allowing space for the inspector to sit next to him.

Lestrade had that look on his face, the horrific one that John had thought he'd escaped long ago. Half-curious, half-concerned- like a doctor staring at a fascinating patient who he thought couldn't see him looking. John could see him looking quite clearly, as it happened, and it was the kind of look one grows accustomed to but not used to.

"Where're you going?" Lestrade asked, sitting down and shrugging off his coat.

"Brecon Beacons," he replied shortly. "The Dinosaur Park specifically."

"Is it because-"

"Of the murder," John finished. "Yeah. You're not... going there too, are you?"

"I am," Lestrade said.

"But I-" _checked_, was the ending to that sentence. _I checked to be certain that it wasn't your case and you wouldn't be there. _John doesn't say that though and luckily Greg doesn't seem to notice his pause.

"They allocated me to it in exchange for a pay rise. It's a particularly tricky one apparently and they thought I might be able to offer some advice, given-" he struggled for a way to word it what he was trying to say "-the company I used to keep."

"I thought I might be able to help too," John said. "As a doctor, obviously, but also because of the- the company I used to keep."

"Still shadowing cases then?" Lestrade asked.

"Always," John smiled. Not at Greg, but out the window.

"Can't believe I got moved to this one," Lestrade muttered. "All the way out in fucking Wales. I always thought maybe they had- what're those blokes from the Doctor Who spin off? Torchwood. I always imagined they'd be on this."

"Not gay enough for them," John commented and the two of them laughed.

"We don't speak much any more, John," Lestrade said.

Never had a sentence so screamed _YOUR BEST FRIEND IS DEAD._ Everything spoke a little of those words, but this more than anything. If there had been any constant other than Mrs Hudson in John's friendship with Sherlock, it must have been Lestrade. Always there to give them a particularly juicy case or drop by to tell them about the latest baffling murders.

"He would have loved this one," Greg said. John couldn't bring himself to reply.

The rest of the journey was spent in a silence full of attempts to speak.


	3. Chapter 3

iii

In his stay with Sherlock at 221b, John spent a lot of time wondering if he was gay. He could never quite put his finger on it though. He didn't want to have sex with men, he didn't particularly want to kiss men or even hold hands with them. But he and Sherlock functioned so like a couple and were so commonly mistaken for one that, in the end, John ended up thinking of them as one too. A couple who had never needed to ask the other on a date or tell them they loved them or taken them to bed. It had just happen on it's own without announcement and there was no sin in that. Only confusion.

After Sherlock died, John mourned like he'd lost a lover. He supposed he had. So after seemingly endless and useless therapy sessions and hours of scouring the net for _ways to get over the death of a friend_, John had begun to search for _ways to get over the death of a lover._

Now he was sitting as far back as possible in a group therapy session for Recovering From the Death of your Partner. Capital 'd' for death. When John saw the word in his mind's eye, every letter was upper case. DEATH. DEAD. SHERLOCK'S DEAD.

"Suicides. Suicides are what I'd like to talk about next," the woman speaking said from the plastic chair she was perched on at the front of the hall. John sat up a little at her words, though he still felt incredibly idiotic just being here. "Has anyone here had their partner commit suicide?"

People exchanged glances and looked around them, waiting for someone to speak up. No one did. Eventually, realising he would not get the answers otherwise, John slowly raised his hand. A one on one in front of everyone else was not what he had expected from this ridiculously intimate session. It felt like an invasion of his mind by strangers, they were climbing in and picking and poking at the puddles of sadness the grey matter was soaked in.

The woman's eyes focused on him from across the hall.

"What you must understand, is that it was in no way your fault. Suicides are never anyone's fault, no human being could be responsible for the fathoms of depression and sadness."

"Well of course it's not my fault," John laughed, to the other attendees' surprise. "It was Moriarty's fault."

The woman paused, and looked down at her clipboard. Clearly the NHS didn't mention James Moriarty in their medical notes on depression.

"Moriarty?" she echoed.

"The consulting criminal mastermind," John said.

The therapist remained in an expression of flummoxed panic. _Oh look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me?_ Of course the world had forgotten already. Forgotten the evil and the good and the tragedy of it all. The tragedy they never even began to feel. Only John had.

"We'll actually be covering delusions caused by the shock of a loved one's death... a little later," the woman said, tapping her pen on her clipboard. "But now we'll have a coffee break, there's a machine in the corner-"

People began to get up and mill around but John stayed slumped in his seat, watching the woman get up and run a hand through her hair. Several times, thinking he wasn't looking, she cast John a dubious look. He waved jovially back at her and she quickly turned away, rushing over and talking urgently to a nurse who was smoking in the corner.

John watched her go. He remembered a game he and Sherlock used to play, in between cases when things weren't so mad. John would point to random people in the crowd, or strangers who caused him even the tiniest annoyance, and say _'what about him?' 'what about her, then?'_. Sherlock would grin and list off every compromising fact or offence he could garner from the stranger's skin and clothing, making John chuckle like they were two kids in the playground taking the piss out of a third party. It was a win-win activity, he'd always though. Sherlock got to show off and John got the satisfaction of a quiet revenge.

John watched the woman go and knew nothing more about her.


	4. Chapter 4

iv

Molly burst through the door of the forensics lab and shrieked in surprise when she saw John. He got up quickly as he could on his crutch. He'd started using the crutch again barely a week after Sherlock had gone. His limp was worse than ever but he managed to get to the lab's exit in record time.

"Oh, John, don't go just yet I've got files for you," Molly called and he stopped.

He turned but stayed at a distance, holding his hand out for the files, almost expecting her to throw them to him. He was at the lab to check out the cause of death of a couple of corpses from the Brecon Beacon murders, but he hadn't expected Molly to be out here too. Apparently anyone on the force who had more than one conversation with Sherlock counted as an expert on this case.

Molly had the unfortunate habit of blurting uncomfortable attempts at empathy or reassurance whenever John was around, quickly becoming the second person John went out of his way to avoid. The first had been Mycroft, the third had been Greg. Fortunately for John, Molly had always avoided him as much as he avoided her. All the same, Molly had been the only other person he knew who believed Sherlock was still alive.

It had slipped out once, when they were in the lab. She'd simply said _You never know, it might be a trick, he might still be out there_. Of course he had already thought of this, conjured up countless theories- but John had been stunned and pursued the idea with her. Unfortunately, seconds after she was in a fluster, denying ever having said such a thing. He didn't blame her really, he didn't exactly advertise the fact he had thought so too at first.

She handed him the files and he nodded, making to leave. Before he could close the door, however, she called out to him.

"Do you- I was just wondering- do you still believe that Sherlock's alive?" she asked.

John smiled. "It's the only reason I'm still here."

He wasn't sure if he really believed it any more, or if he was just hanging onto it to escape the aching, agonizing sadness that was so impossible to escape. Even with that slither of hope, dancing around his head, he couldn't avoid the gigantic cacophony of depression or the loss that weighed in his belly like a heavy meal that'll make him sick. John barely ate any more. Mrs Hudson said it's like he adopted Sherlock's diet just to keep driving her crazy with worry.

"Do you expect him to come back?" Molly asked.

"He's been gone so long, why would he come back now?" John shrugged, fighting back the tears. Why did Molly have to be here? Why did she have to ask him _that? _"I just want him to," he said.


	5. Chapter 5

v

"Time of death I'd say... an hour ago," John said.

"But we got here two hours ago," Anderson pointed out in a barely repressed snide tone. The bridge of his nose is shriveled up shrewdly.

"He must have been alive when we got here," John said, rocking back on his heels, perched in front of the body lying in the grass.

"Or maybe you're just tired," Lestrade said, carefully.

"Or maybe you're losing you're knack," Anderson muttered.

"Shut up, Anderson!" someone from the cluster of forensic experts and policemen called, making the three of them crowded round the body jump.

John tried to see who said it but it's impossible to tell, everyone over there is laughing. Apart from Donovan that is, but even she is holding back a smile, quivering slightly with the effort of it.

"Tea break, everyone," Greg calls. He and Anderson wander off to find coffee, as do mostly everyone else.

John got up and dusted down his knees. Wales is bitterly cold at this time of year, biting right through the luminous forensic overalls and chilling his skin. It doesn't help that they've been stuck out here for days now. No one can figure out how these murders could have happened or why, and with each piece of information they garner, the more mysterious it gets.

They all know who they'd need on a case like this. Everyone seems to have forgotten they thought he was a fake, muttering _"where's that Holmes when you need him?"_ as they sit baffled by crime scenes.

He hated them for that. He hated them for being hypocrites, for being so shallow and so easily persuaded. He hated them because it was not their fault, not at all. It had nothing to do with them. He hated them because they didn't have to care.

"I think I've got the footprint information!" someone sitting with equipment in the back of a van shouted. People gathered round and John wandered over, hanging back.

Then, without warning, the van had caught fire and everyone was scattering.

"It was a cigarette!"

"It caught on the papers!"

"The notes- _the stuff!"_

The fire was a small one and they put it out quick enough, but the evidence and the solutions were gone forever once again. Lestrade buried his face in his hands.

"Well don't look at me!" someone yelled in protest. "I don't smoke, I didn't do it!"

A policeman just in front of John began to hum to himself. John recognised it. It was Billy Joel. And suddenly, for the first time in so long, he laughed and he began to sing along.

"_We didn't start the fire, it was always burning since the world's been turning."_

The policeman, buried in the collar of his florescent jacket turned his head slightly- not enough for John to recognise him by a face- and then started and walked brusquely away. With that, the fleeting happiness was gone, barely having grown beyond a sprout in the first place. John was so lonely.


	6. Chapter 6

vi

_Hi there! We've noticed that there has been no activity on you account for three years. If you are having a problem logging in, follow this link and you will receive an email reminding you of your password. If you wish to create a new account, please follow this link and the instructions. If you wish to delete your blog, please click here._

John's finger hovered over the mouse pad, millimetres away from deleting his blog. He's read through the cases countless times, memorised every word. Broken down in tears reading Sherlock's irritable comments and often death threats that he'd left there. _John, fetch me my revolver. John, really? What is the point of this post. What I do is an exact science and should be treated as such. I. AM. BORED. And I'm wondering what temperature I'd need to create to blow up your cans of beer..._

Sometimes he lost himself in the comments and would turn around in his armchair to shout a witty reply to them back at Sherlock. Then he'd look and the kitchen would be empty. No science experiments, no exploding cans of beer, no Sherlock wielding a revolver that John was sure he had locked away. Just John. Just lonely, broken John.


	7. Chapter 7

vii

John was sitting in his chair again, staring at Sherlock's. It was so empty. Well, of course it was, but he never expected an absence to be so gigantic. Not that Sherlock ever sat in it _properly_, unless he was bothering to look respectable for a client, he was always perched with his knees under his chin there. Rocking and waiting for a case, or snapped to attention as he figures things out. God, the whole flat was so empty. John never really thought of it as _his_ flat, after all, it was always _his and Sherlock's _flat.

He stayed away from the flat as often as he could, out on location for a case or working in hospitals so far away he had to sleep in hotels. It costs him a fortune but he doesn't need food for money of comforts any more, nothing worth money could bring him the comfort he really needed.

He didn't have girlfriends either, he gave up on them long ago. They all said he's too mopey or too odd. He had one night stands with women he was lucky enough to encourage for one night, but every time he did he remembered how _this is not what I need_. He didn't need someone to kiss or hug or fuck. He needed a man in a ridiculous coat who would annoy him enough to make him love him.

In fact, he was so often away from the flat that Mrs Hudson started a bed and breakfast whenever he was gone. He often forgot this little fact. Whenever he heard footsteps in the bedroom next door or clattering in the kitchen before he was out of bed, his heart leapt and he bounded through with stupid stupid hope only to find a stranger, confused as to why a man in his pyjamas is suddenly grinning manically at them.

Every time he was tired enough to be fooled into this happiness, he was sadder than ever immediately after. Like suddenly he could fly but moments later he was plunging into the cold and stormy sea.

So now he was in the chair, trying to tune out the sound of the radio that a stranger had turned on in the kitchen. Trying not to hear the clink of cutlery as Sherlock messing around with science equipment. Trying not to hear the footsteps as Sherlock's footsteps. The all too loud breathing as Sherlock's breath tickling his ear as he mutters some witty comment about the idiots of the world.

John was- however- startled when a mug of coffee landed abruptly on the table next to him. He looked up. The man was fully dressed, a backpack over his shoulder. He was a tourist, clearly foreign and his face crumpled at the brow every time he spoke.

"Coffee? You take sugar?" the man blurted.

John blinked. "Yeah," he lied, remembering someone else offering him coffee, long ago. Coffee with sugar. Sugar that the someone thought was drugged, he reminded himself before he labeled that memory as a fond one.

He sipped the coffee as the man watched him expectantly. The man had been staying there for several days, a special favour because he was a friend of a friend of a friend. According to Mrs Hudson, anyway. She told John the man would be stay for a couple of weeks, to his dismay, but in front of him the man is holding what looks like all his bags fully packed. "You off?" John asked, and then- realising the possible misunderstanding- he rephrases. "Are you leaving?"

The man nodded. "I won the lottery," he said. "I shall be buying a better place to stay, so as not to impose on you."

John's eyes widened. "You... won the lottery?"

"Yes," the man nodded. "Twice in a row."

John's eyes were in danger of dropping out of their sockets. "TWICE?"

The man nodded. "Lottery is easy in England, it seems. Man taught me trick."

"There's a trick to the lottery?" John asked.

"I can't tell you," the man beamed.

"Well I don't blame you," John sipped his coffee. It wasn't not so bad. "I had a friend who swore blind that he could get me the lottery numbers. Never believed him for one minute."

"Maybe he knows the trick too?" the man asked.

"No, no, he was just dicking around," John smiled. "Well, you haven't been imposing on me really. You've been polite and... quiet enough."

"I am sure I was annoying you!" the man exclaimed, grinning bizarrely despite the worry in his words. "Why- you always looking so sad when I am in the room!"

"That's just my face," John said.

"Then you are very sad all the time?"

"Yes."


	8. Chapter 8

_I've been kicked around since I was born_

_And now it's alright, it's OK_

_And you may look the other way_

_We can try and understand_

* * *

><p><span>viii<span>

John couldn't do this, he couldn't run. He thought the adrenaline would kick in and make the limp go away but for God's sake he couldn't do this. Every shuddering step sent an electrifying shoot of pain through his leg, jolting him to his core. His face was screwed up in pain and on the cold night, running over chilly welsh hills, he was somehow sweating. And he couldn't seem to get the little red light off him.

He'd ducked the first shot, just seeing the light flicker over his heart before it was fired. The evening had long been lingering, John one of the last people to leave the crime scene of yet another murder at Brecon Beacons. He'd wandered off to find a pub but had got lost on the hills when the roadside lights mysteriously went out. He should have caught on then but he didn't, he was too lost in his thoughts. And now it was all too clear that he was to be the next body that Scotland Yard would be investigating.

The pain in his leg was like a scream, ripping at his insides and making a sob collect in his throat. His breath rattled in his lungs. God he was unfit. Thin and limping, he was not cut out for this. He almost scolded himself for not exercising more. He'd never have to go out of his way to work out in the last few years, he did enough of that struggling to keep up with Sherlock's stride.

Here he was, running from someone with a gun once again but with no one to lead him to safety.

He hit the ground from pure exhaustion just as another shot is fired, and he could not believe his luck. It ripped his jacket shoulder as he went down. He inspected the damage, trying to discern what direction the bullet came from. The west, he decided, most probably. Then, in one swift movement, he was rolling down the other side of the hill. Out of range, he was sure, until the ground exploded beneath a bullet right next the his head. He feels blood wet in his fringe.

Bloody hell, the marksman was good. But where is he?

Suddenly he slammed into rocks, twisting his face away from them at the last moment but badly bruising his shoulder and cutting open the back of his head. Thank god, he hadn't cracked his skull. Just the skin. A lot of blood though. He was going to leave a damn trail of the stuff, lead the hit-man straight to him.

He ran between the rocky walls, heading back into the park. It was dark and deserted, not a police van or uniform for miles. There was nothing to do but hide.

John ducked into a crevice between hill and rock and gate, pulling loose wire mesh over his head and curling into a ball. It was pitch black in his hiding place, he couldn't see a thing. The darkness seemed to press into his eyes and he began to wonder if they were even open.

A shot fired next to him, ricocheting off the rocks and making him yelp with surprise.

Then another shot. Next to his head.

How was the hit-man even reaching him here?

A third shot.

It took a moment of confusion for John to realise the bullet was buried his shoulder.

He screamed in pain.

Then there was a crunch of feet on gravel. John had no idea who it was. But the footsteps were slow, in no hurry to come to his aid. Just biding their time in expectance of the inevitable. It was not one of Scotland Yard, that's for sure.

John looked up. There was a silhouette, just darker than the night, visible beyond the wire mesh that he suddenly can't escape.

A gun fired.

But the bullet didn't hit John. Instead, the silhouette was the one blown back by the shot and suddenly there were scuffling, hurried footsteps and hands hauling the wire mesh off of him. Strong arms are hauling him out but John wasn't taking any chances. As soon as he'd gained a footing on the uneven ground, he shrugged off the new man and punched him hard as he could. He didn't know what he hit, the man was tall and hunched over into an impossible to discern tangle of limbs, but John heard the groan and ran.

The first silhouette was lying on the ground covered in blood that shimmered in the light of the moon. Dead. John ran by him, limp still holding him down like a persistent child with their arms around his ankle. But now there was the tearing pain in his shoulder too. Exactly where he was shot all those years before. So long ago, before he'd had someone to fix him.

He hadn't the faintest idea what was going on when there was the bang of another gun, the bullet whizzing right in front of his eyes. It could not have been any closer to him without doing damage, but John couldn't stop to appreciate how scared he was. He powered on but suddenly arms wrapped around him and pulled him into the shadows.

He struggled but whoever it was was strong. Soon, however, it became clear that they were not there to kill John. There was a gun in their hand but they weren't pointing it at John. They were holding it at arms length over John's shoulder, pointing into the sky.

"What the fuck is going on-" John began to protest but the man spoke over him.

"Don't worry, they're not after you they're after me," the voice said, in a clearly affected welsh accent. Underneath it is a rumbling tone that John can just about recognise. "Well, they are after you actually but they're only after you because they want me dead."

"And?" John said.

"Unlucky for them," the man replied, losing the accent and a smirk in his words.

And before John could be surprised, the man fired the gun.


	9. Chapter 9

_So stay there_

_Cause I'll be coming over_

_And while our blood's still young_

_It's so young it runs_

* * *

><p><span>ix<span>

They found John the next morning, hunched on the ground and clearly in shock. His hands were shaking and he was covered in blood. Lestrade ushered him into the ambulance and he was fixed up on site. A badly cut ear, a small head wound and a bullet embedded in his shoulder. When they asked him what was wrong, he says 'nothing'. When Lestrade asked him he said 'I think something might be right'. Because he knew whose voice he heard that night, he knew _exactly_ who it was. Impossibly, _like magic_- but he knew such things don't exist. He couldn't feel happy just yet though. He was simply shaken. Shaking.

There were no more murders for a week, no more invisible hit-men, and in the end John realised he is just as bored there as he would be anywhere else.

"I'm going home," he told Lestrade.

"Where?" Lestrade asked.

John frowned. "The flat."

"You said home," Greg pointed out.

"Yeah?" John shrugged, not getting the point.

"Nothing," Greg said with a shrug and let him walk away. Let him walk home alone.

He knew for a fact that John Watson had not called 221b Baker Street 'home' for over three years.


	10. Chapter 10

x

The room was supposed to be silent but apparently the elder Holmes brother couldn't help blurting it out when he saw him. It didn't matter, anyway. They were the only two in there.

"John?" Mycroft murmured.

John was sitting in an armchair opposite him, having just put down his newspaper to reveal his face. The other Holmes looked as if he'd just been proposed to with a slap in the face. John didn't blame him. After all, they hadn't spoken or seen each other at all since Sherlock's death. Not even once. John had, of course, on countless occasions been approached by Anthea or had a sleek black car roll up next to him. But he'd never been forced into accompanying them. Not that anyone could force John to face Mycroft Holmes. Not after what happened.

Mycroft stood up and began to lead John into the other room, but John didn't get up. It would cause him enough pain to get up anyway, what with the pain in his shoulder, but it would cause him even more than that to comply with Mycroft's wishes and intentions. So Mycroft stood before him and waited to be addressed.

Mycroft has a very limited patience.

"Doctor Watson, you are obviously here for a reason," he said. "So you can either express it or I can leave."

John heaved himself up on his crutch, wheezing for breath. Mycroft frowned.

"Injured?" he asked.

John smiled humourlessly. _What's new?_

"Why are you here, John? How can I help you?" Mycroft asked, taking a different tack.

John took an envelope out of his pocket and slipped it into Mycroft's. Then he hobbled out of the room, not making a sound but for the breath struggling to get in and out of his lungs and tired body.

As soon as he was gone, Mycroft dived for a letter opener and sliced his thumb opening the envelope. His fingers trembled as he unfolded the note.

_I think I saw your brother last night._

Mycroft had to sit down for a very long time.


	11. Chapter 11

_It's like forgetting the words to your favourite song_

_You can't believe it, you were always singing along_

_It was so easy and the words so sweet_

_You can't remember you try to feel the beat_

* * *

><p><span>xi<span>

There is only one clue John has ever had that had encouraged his hope of Sherlock being alive. His violin, sitting on the top of the shelves just as he left it even three years later. John had pondered learning to play it but when he climbed up onto a chair he found it was caked so thickly in dust that he had been sneezing almost consistently for days afterwards. All the same, a few days later he looked up there again, wondering if he should put it in a case- though he wasn't sure Sherlock had ever owned such an item of care.

The curious thing, the hopeful thing, was that when he looked that time, the violin had been shaken free of dust. He'd asked Mrs Hudson whether she had cleaned up there but she said she always avoided it.

"It's a right pain for my asthma, dear," she'd said.

That explained why Sherlock had also stashed several packets of cigarettes up there.

Over the months and the years, every time dust settled on the violin John found that it was soon clear of it in a matter of days. Almost as if someone had come in and played it when John was out.

The most chilling and final evidence, was on the night he returned from Wales and sat down to watch telly with Mrs Hudson again. The BBC proms were on, not something John was particularly interested in to be honest but he wasn't paying attention anyway.

"It was lovely to hear you playing yesterday by the way," she said, nodding to the television set.

John frowned. "I wasn't home yester-" he stopped himself.

"Oh, in the morning I mean," Mrs Hudson yawned, too sleepy to remember. "When I came back from my early grocery shopping? I didn't even know you played, to be honest. Reminded me of him."

"I don't play," John said.

Mrs Hudson just laughed. "Oh you're too down on yourself, John!"

John didn't protest any further. He watched the orchestra of violins play on the television, their arms jerking and bows flicking nimbly across the strings. Like how Sherlock used to leap around the flat, how he used to jump over every obstacle like his bow jumped over the strings. The first time he had played in front of John, John had been surprised. He shouldn't have been, Sherlock had told him the first time they'd met that he was partial to the habit. But there was something tender about the intensity with which he played, something so in love with what he was doing. So proud to be playing but careful to do it right.


	12. Chapter 12

_We burnt all the skin from the palms of my hands_

_With an old zippo lighter and deodorant cans_

_I went to the palmist and asked her to read_

_No heart line, no sun line, no life line, no need_

* * *

><p><span>xii<span>

Weeks passed and the dust on the violin was left untouched. Months passed and John never felt an arm wrap around him in protection again. Almost half a year had gone by and John had lost hope all over again. It was worse than the first time, it happened more rapidly. What had first gone by in months went by in days and weeks. Depression fast forwarded.

Some days he sat in his flat with his gun in his hand, others he held it to his head. More than a few times his finger twitched on the trigger. Once it pulled the trigger. But when he fired he pointed it at the spray painted smiley-face on the wall and now the illustration had a bullet hole nose to complete it. And John had one less bullet to blast into his brain. It was just lucky Mrs Hudson wasn't home. She'd been threatening more than ever to put John in hospital.

There were other days through, fleeting ones that rolled by like plastic bags in the wind, forgotten in the split second they were noticed. They weren't so much happy as they were basic and normal and alright. Which was what John needed to get by, but not at all what he needed to live. It was not enough to plug the hole in his skull that let in the siege of black and swirling hopelessness.

He forgot about ghosts who played violins when he wasn't there. He forgot about silhouettes who held him in the dark.


	13. Chapter 13

_Oh, darling make it go make it go away_

_Give me these moments give them back to me_

* * *

><p><span>xiii<span>

It was one of the _other days _and too early in the morning for John to have noticed that. He watched the telly while he ate cereal, padded round the house in his dressing gown and opened the fridge door with his foot, realising he had to go shopping again. He put his clothes on as if he was in a trance. Blissfully making his zombie-like way through the world.

John opened the door to 221b, about to close it behind him, and discovered Sherlock Holmes standing on the porch. His coat flapped in the wind, his hair ruffled by the breeze, but his face was so still he looked like an illustration. All he was was a picture book drawing, cut out and stuck down on the world in front of John.

Then he blinked.

John reached out to touch him but Sherlock caught his hand.

"Let me inside, don't react, just let me inside," Sherlock said. "We might be being watched."

Dazed, his blissful sleep walk shattered and in pieces at his feet, John stepped back into the flat. Sherlock got inside quickly and closed the door behind them. It was dark in the hall. Mrs Hudson was out and John never bothered turning the downstairs lights on anyway.

Shadowed, Sherlock looked even more like a spirit, his high cheekbones enunciated and his eyes skull-like hollows in the dark. His hair was shorter than John remembered and he looked even thinner than ever, but other than that he was exactly the man John had never been able to leave behind. He was exactly Sherlock Holmes and he was exactly what John needed.

He couldn't even feel astonishment yet. He just felt mad. He was sure he was dreaming or hallucinating. Maybe this was his way of trying to cope with the all the more pressing sadness on his mind. John couldn't believe that though. Something about the man in front of him was too vivid to be a dream.

"Where's Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

John opened and closed his mouth like a stunned child. Then he shook himself. "Out. Shopping."

"Fuck," Sherlock muttered, one of the few times John ever heard him swear. "Best to stay away from windows for now," he murmured. "Too easy a target there."

"Target?" John frowned.

"Target," Sherlock nodded. Only then did John realise that Sherlock was looking over the top of his head, not meeting his eye.

"Oh. Whose target?" he asked.

"Sebastian Moran's," Sherlock replied. "Hired by Moriarty to shoot you if I didn't jump. He was working for someone else at Brecon Beacons, I shouldn't have realised it was his signature flair with the snipers, but I was an idiot. I thought I could solve the case with no one noticing I was there. But he saw me so he realised he had to shoot you."

"It was you in the hills? You helped me out or the wires?" John asked. _The humming policeman. He must have been Sherlock too._

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly, still not looking at him. "I had to die all over again," he said, rolling his eyes as if death was some tiresome chore that couldn't be avoided. Which- John supposed- it was. "I shouldn't have come back."

John punched him. Careful to avoid his nose and teeth, but it was a very hard punch all the same. Not quite enough to make up for three years though, so as Sherlock turned his head back to protest John hit him again. And again. And again. Until Sherlock was on the ground, arms raised over his head in a feeble and almost accepting attempt to soften the blows. John found himself in tears as he kicked and punched and elbowed and kneed Sherlock wherever he could. His heart felt too absent to feel happy.

"Fucking three years!" John yelled.

"Shhh!" Sherlock protested. "Snipers!"

John didn't care. "You'd better hope they kill you before I do!" "But I've just come back to life!" Sherlock protested weakly. "For the second time!"

"I DON'T CARE!" John bellowed, pinning down Sherlock's writhing arms. "I DON'T CARE. I WANTED TO DIE, I WANTED TO DIE BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T THERE."

"SO DID I!" Sherlock bellowed back, even louder, apparently forgetting his own cautions. "I ALWAYS HAD EVERY INTENTION OF RETURNING, JOHN, DON'T YOU SEE?"

A person only really seems real to you when you see their loose ends. The frayed ends of their string. The wounded, lost and wandering parts of them. Sherlock was pinned, with no protest, to the ground beneath John looking desperate and angry and sad and scared all at once. All the things he never showed before in one expression. In one shout. One bullet through John's heart.

"Sherl-" John began to shout again but Sherlock interrupted him. "Snipers, quiet," he reminded him.

John rocked back on his heels and covered his face in his hands. He could feel his body shaking but the last of his tears had been spent so long ago.

"This can't be real," he whispered. "No. No. This cannot be real, you aren't real."

"I am. I am real. I wish I wasn't but I am and I've discovered there is very little I can do about that," Sherlock said. John lowered his hands and stared at him. His friend seemed to jump out at him from the hall, even though he sat still. He seemed to glow, or exist in greater detail than was possible for a human.

"Where did you go?" John asked in disbelief. "_Why _did you go?"

"Moriarty hired three hit-men to kill my best friends if I didn't jump off that roof," he said. "If I didn't kill myself. One bullet for Mrs Hudson, one for Lestrade and one for you. They were going to kill you if I didn't make them believe I'd died," he said, gazing desperately at John. "I've been saying for years and years that love is a dangerous disadvantage but you had to bloody go and be my friend, didn't you? You had to go and get a gun pointed at your head- oh, I shouldn't have come back they're only going to do it again. I have to go-"

"Don't you dare," John grabbed Sherlock's wrist as tightly as he could. "Don't you even fucking think about it. How could you just _leave _me? Couldn't you even contact me?"

"It was a risk I couldn't take," Sherlock shook his head. "We were being observed without our noticing for months, Moriarty could have hacked your phone too. Besides, I thought it'd be easier on you-"

"In what universe is tricking me into thinking you were dead _easy?_" John exploded.

"I was coming back!" Sherlock roared. "I didn't think it would take me three years, I didn't count on how clever Moran is. I thought he died in Tibet, I thought I could finally come back. Back when you were investigating Brecon Beacons I was planning on returning to Baker Street, finally returning to you. I even got rid of the tourist, rigged the lottery for him _twice_. I came back to the flat every other month to check you hadn't damaged any my stuff, my violin or my notes. I got all my equipment back from the school-"

"That was you? I thought it had been stolen, I was furious-" John interrupted.

"It was me," Sherlock nodded. "They call themselves a secure learning foundation, _really_. I had half a mind to pinch one of _their_ microscopes, encourage them to get some finger print recognition software that can't be fooled by a little make up wipe and-"

He stopped upon seeing exactly how dazed John looked and he smiled fondly. "Oh, it's been a long time since I've had someone to baffle like that. Odd what one misses about a person, isn't it?" he beamed but then his expression became earnest again. "You see, I always had every intention of coming back, John."

It had been so very long since John had heard Sherlock say his name. He had always imagined it, thought he could Sherlock calling him from the other room or across the road but when he'd looked there had been no one. Now Sherlock flooded his sense. He really was there. He was _alive_.

"Oh thank god," John murmured finally.

Sherlock frowned but John just ducked his head and decided that the people were always going to bloody well talk so he may as well do something to prove them right. He kissed Sherlock in the way you draw a circle then realise it's not quite connected at the ends. You ink the last little, curving line in carefully and tentatively but purposefully all the same. Complete it with something so simple. It was simply what they hadn't realised what was missing til now.

Maybe it took three years apart, two faked deaths, and one bullet to the shoulder to do it but they finally finished it. Neither of them were surprised. Not shocked or clumsy or awkward. It just happened, as it was always going to. Sherlock cupped his cheek and kissed him back with tender intensity, so proud to be kissing him but careful to do it right

Unseen, a red dot flickered on the window pane of the door above their heads.

* * *

><p>Chapter thirteen and the last chapter of this little thing is over! Does this prove thirteen to be a lucky or an unlucky number? Do tell me in the comments, I'd love to hear what you thought of this brainfart of ideas. Thanks for reading this far, darling, and thank you for putting up with the mistakes of horror only paralleled by their number, I know. I hope I haven't ruined Sherlock for you.<p>

x


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